


Warmth and Forgiveness

by angellteeth



Series: Platovember [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst, Gen, Ghost Stan AU, Mayhaps, bitch barely integrating the Warmth, god i rlly thought i did smthng here huh???, its like. Fine though :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angellteeth/pseuds/angellteeth
Summary: Or maybe just something close to it.
Series: Platovember [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999222
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	Warmth and Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> ghost Stan au by [godlymoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/godlymoss/pseuds/godlymoss) you really should read about it [here](https://the-gravity-is-falling.tumblr.com)

Stan drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.

He was alive, sort of, almost, more or less. If anything, he was back in his head and about as stable as he'd ever been.

That alone was some kind of blessing, after thirty years of going insane.

Which he didn't really like thinking about.

Remembering what it felt like wasn't particularly great, the mix of apathy and hyperactivity and brain pounding rage.

It would've given him a headache if he had a heartbeat.

But it was worse, in a way, going through everything he'd actually _done._ He'd really tried his damndest to drive his brother insane. And he'd probably done a number on that Fiddleford guy, too. The man seemed pretty skittish.

Which wasn't really great.

How do you even _apologize_ for that?

_"Oh by the way sorry for making ruining your day everyday for thirty years straight my only purpose in the world."_ Yeah. That was sure to go down well.

And it wasn't like he could just not apologize, was it?

He never really had the habit of apologising (and when he tried he usually sucked at it) but this was too much to just _ignore._ If he did, Stanford may kill him a second time.

The drumming picked up speed and he shivered.

He'd been freezing for those thirty years, and now it had just barely let up into "pretty uncomfortable". Which was still better than "painful" but still, he didn't have to like being cold.

So he was just sort of all around miserable, wasn't he?

The sour feeling being so incredibly ungrateful didn't really help.

Hadn't he learned by now to be happy with what he can get, and not whine when the world didn't hand him everything he wanted?

Though, getting killed might just grant him the right to be dissatisfied with some things.

Be the reason he got killed probably negated that completely, though.

He really had no right the complain, then.

Being guilty was better than being happy it had happened, at least. But really who wants to feel guilty, huh?

The drumming picked up pace, until the uneven rhythm was annoying even to him. But it wasn't really like he could stop. He'd always been pretty fidgety.

Maybe that was a sign of something.

He was dragged out of his thoughts when Stanford came into the kitchen, getting a glass of water.

Even with a turtleneck and a thick coat he shivered when he came in the room. It was always shockingly cold around Stan, and chilly throughout the rest of the house.

Pretty nice in the summer, but being near him would be unbearable come winter.

Stan expected him to just take his water and go, they hadn't really talked much since he'd gotten a hold of himself, but he sat down across from him instead.

The drumming picked up the pace, in a sporadic frantic lack of rhythm.

The first thing Ford did was put his hand on Stan's, flattening his hand completely and forcing him to stop.

"Quit that."

Stan started bouncing his knee instead.

"Stanley, I've been meaning to talk to you about-"

Stan cut him off before he could say whatever he was about to say, the cold feeling gathering up into a jagged block of ice in his stomach tearing up his insides.

"I'm sorry." Better to just be impulsive with it, eh? "For, ahm, all of that. That's been going on the past thirty years. It was just. Insane. _I_ was insane, I think. Ya see, ahm, being dead, ya just sorta, go nuts I guess. Its just like, ahm-" He rambled, trying to explain the _what_ and the _why_ and just sort of not making sense.

Ford stopped him.

"I know. The undead rarely seem to be mentally stable. In fact, you might be the only case I know of who's right in the head, and that's only just recently. So, I suppose it's fine."

That felt wrong. Sure, it was what he _wanted_ to hear but he'd really come to hate when people just tell him what he wants to hear.

"Don't bullshit me, Ford. It's not fine. What kinda crazy man would think its fine?"

He started drumming his fingers again, in an even rhythm.

Ford sighed, stopping him from drumming his fingers again with an annoyed look.

"Well I can't really blame you for it, can I? I'm trying to be reasonable here. You should just accept it and move on."

"Quit telling me what I want to hear, Stanford."

He started drumming his fingers on his knee, instead. Nothing Ford could about that.

Ford made a face, annoyed Stan wouldn't just _accept it_ so they could stop talking. But Stan had always been annoyingly stubborn, so really what did he expect?

"Fine! Fine, I'm a little bit furious but really what am I supposed to do about it?? Yell at you for dying?? It's my fault you're dead in the first place! What the hell kind of person am I to be _mad_ at you for it?!"

"The hell do you mean its _your_ fault?! It's not like _you_ stabbed me!"

"Well if I had just _done something_ at any point maybe you wouldn't have even been stabbed!"

"I probably would've! I got myself stabbed, _you_ didn't have nothing to do with it!"

Ford sat quiet for a second, chewing on his tongue.

"It'd be "You didn't have _anything_ to do with it.", Stanley," Ford started.

"Oh shut up."

He ignored him and continued. "And that's the problem! I never did anything! And if I had, maybe none of this would've happened!"

Stan sighed, leaning backwards and staring at the ceiling. "I woulda gotten myself hit sooner or later, no matter what _you_ did. I'm very, ahm, stabbable. The thing is, ya don't gotta lie bout forgiving me cuz I got myself stabbed."

"Stanley, I'm not _lying._ I don't hold any of it against you, I know how ghosts work. I'm just. Also upset about it."

"You sure bout that?"

"I don't say things I'm not sure about, Stan."

"Guess ya don't, eh."

The icy feeling that had settled in his stomach had started letting up.

They were quiet for a minute, before Ford spoke up again.

"And Stan? I suppose I should apologize too."

"You don't have to apologize, Stanford. It's not your fault I died."

"No, no, it's not that. I was just. Sort of a jerk for a while."

Stan snorted. "That? Don't even worry about it."

They sat in the kitchen, in the closest thing to a comfortable silence since they were ten, and for the first time in thirty odd years, Stan felt the closest the closest thing to _warmth_ that he was capable of.


End file.
